A Gameshow family
At a grand parade
Like their thoughts
And their pants
Those words they do fade
A Bold Tirade!
In soundless silence
A pantomime performance
Depicts fleeting sweets
There's so much
Hallowed Ground here,
A memory for every street
While a million miles up
Slinging through the heat
And lightning
Beatnik aeronauts are harvesting
Stream of consciousness clouds
Upon makeshift flying machines
They maneuver
And weave
A tapestry So un-unique
But of such dexterity
And the soul of the world
It bleeds
And stains
The woven network
Of divine fleece
The colors of gore,
A symbol of peace
While six billion miles down
Faded language will cease
And the flawless
Macy's Day populace
Turn a collective face skywards
Peering through the opaque breeze
Their opalescent optic nerves
Warn them not to breathe.
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